There I Was
by AnimeMangaAngel
Summary: Stiles has been part of the Pack since he was 16. Stiles has been fighting supernatural creatures for a little bit longer than that. Stiles is human, and gets hurt. A lot. Stiles… is done. Warnings: Sterek, mild depiction of injury, mild language
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer - **I don't own Teen Wolf or the song this fic was inspired by (named at the end of the fic)

**There I Was**

When the warm gold light of the early morning sun poured over his eyes, Stiles groaned, pulling his comforter up over his head in an effort to keep sleeping. Five minutes later with an annoyed huff, he tossed the too-warm blankets aside and gave into the impulse to get up for the day. Slow and languid with sleep, he sat up – but that was all it took to remind him of the day before.

A bruise – deep black, purple, and blue in the center and ringed at the edges with sickly greens and yellows – crawled over his entire left side painfully. It disappeared into his boxers, edged onto his neck, and branched out over his shoulder, chest, and lower back, and throbbed darkly with every pulse of his heartbeat. His left wrist twanged when he thoughtlessly braced himself on it with the intention of prodding the bruise with his right hand; the joint was ringed in yellow and green, and mildly swollen. He gasped and jerked back.

Tired eyes glared accusingly at his reflection in the mirror on his wall. Added to the bruise and the twisted wrist, a wide patch of white gauze – under which, he knew without looking, the vicious bite mark of a wendigo that almost succeeded resided – was tapped to his right shoulder; red, blistered road-rash afflicted skin stood out on his left bicep to the elbow, and a small patch on his face; and the accidental grooves and mild bruise of a werewolf grip, too tight in the heat of the moment, sat innocently on the right side of his waist. Stiles was tired of waking up with wounds _just after_ the last set had healed. He'd been pain-free for a grand total of four days before news of a rogue wendigo in the woods – in the _Californian woods?!_ – had reached the Pack. And because he was one of three people in a Pack ten-people-strong who couldn't heal at supernatural speeds, he was of course left with these _lovely _trophies for his efforts.

When he was sixteen, his best friend Scott had been turned into a werewolf. Shortly thereafter, they'd met the one born werewolf in the area who might be able to help them avoid the Alpha who'd changed him. With Derek's help, they killed Peter. Then, when Derek became the new Alpha, Erica, Boyd, and Isaac had been introduced to the Pack. Jackson had tried, but it took reversing his bad change into a kanima to make him a true werewolf. Somewhere along the line, Jackson's human girlfriend, Lydia had joined in – a pyromaniac immune to supernatural events – and so had Scott's human girlfriend, Allison – a former Hunter of all things supernatural, whom nobody had ever expected to become part of a Pack. A year later, Jackson and Lydia asked Derek's permission to add Danny to their secret, both wanting to form a threesome with the boy. It wasn't long before Danny became the first originally-human Packmate to request the Bite. They'd been the same ten-strong for going on almost four years now – everyone, drawn to the Pack by Pack Bonds, had chosen community college in their hometown – and now Stiles was twenty.

And he was tired of waking up beaten to within an inch of his life.

Everyone had discussed moving into the renovated Hale house as a Pack as soon as it was done. The contractors had cleared it for living a week ago, and slowly but surely the Pack was moving in. Stiles' stuff was all boxed up in preparation, crowding his room in a strange way. He was all ready to leave, and he knew he wanted to… it was just, all of a sudden, he didn't know if he wanted to leave _to _the Hale house, or _away _from it.

He sat down at his desk, and – fingers nearly moving on their own, mind detached, and heart cold – Stiles opened up his computer and began to type. He typed all morning long, as the sun crept up the wall. He paused just long enough to make a sandwich and gulp a glass of milk and his meds, and then returned to typing.

By late afternoon, he'd typed a list of his grievances. Well, and his apologies. He _knew_ what Pack meant, because he'd willing been a member for year now, and that knowing made this difficult. But typing it all up also made it easier. Seeing everything – he was human, he was breakable, his magic was meager and couldn't do much, he was a liability, he didn't want to fight anymore, all he had known for most of his high school career and beyond was fighting, and on, and on, and on – definitely made it easier. His mind was made up.

"Dad!" he greeted, when the front door slammed. He jogged carefully down the stairs and watched his father putting up his gun, before swopping in for a hug. "Hey, how was work?"

Sheriff John Stilinski looked akimbo at his energetic son, and hedged carefully, "… It was fine, son. Why? You have one of those… _werewolf business _looks_._ What is the news this time?"

Bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet, Stiles realized in a moment what telling his dad would mean. He grinned wildly, and laughed, ignoring how it was just a tad too sharp. "Nothing, man. Just had a bit too much coffee; research monkey, you know? I've spent the day trying to renew our resources – but that just means I've been sitting on my butt all day. I forgot that, and drank too much. Don't worry about it. I'll start dinner in a bit."

The older man huffed, but began shrugging his jacket off all the same. When the man had stumbled upon the werewolf secret in Stiles' senior year – a messy exorcism that Stiles had to perform right in front of John without preamble, as all the wolves had been otherwise tied up, and the vicious spirit had been about to fixate on the Sheriff in an effort to hurt Stiles – they'd come to a truce. Stiles would _never_ lie to John again, if it had to do with werewolf business, and the Sheriff would respect his decision to risk his life as he saw fit. It had been a big step on the road to fixing the relationship that had shattered with the start of the secret keeping the night Scott got bit.

Stiles scampered back to his room, his mind racing.

He had been so sure of his decision – until it had been ready to come out of his mouth. If he'd told his dad, the older man would have supported him the whole way (and probably gotten a new kind of furious at the Pack for whatever perceived sleight had 'hurt' Stiles enough to run off), but John knew, too, what Pack meant to Stiles. Before he let Stiles leave for good, he would have asked Stiles if he was _sure_. And it was knowing that – knowing John would ask – that had Stiles asking himself that before he forced anyone else to ask.

So Stiles considered it. What life would be like without Pack, for the first time in years. Without Scott there to share video games, jokes, and laughter cultivated over nearly two decades of friendship. Without Allison, and her determination to be useful in spite of being a human (a Hunter) in a pack of wolves. Without Jackson and his hard-edged humor, pressing personality. Without Lydia, her smarts and dedication. Without Danny, his cool self-confidence. Isaac, his sweet, eager-to-please personality. Boyd, his calm, collected, comfortable silence. Erica, her sharp laughter and easy sarcasm. Without Derek and his 'I am Alpha, hear me howl'; his stoic mask, but soft heart; his forceful personality; his secret inner cuddle-monster; his insecurity issues; his utter determination to _protect_.

It took Stiles two whole hours to realize that he had passed over everyone in the Pack with fond pointers, except Derek – who he was _still_ lingering on. Stiles blinked, blinked again, and then breathed, "Oh, hell no."

He'd had a crush on Lydia for forever. Most of it was a misconception on his part – starting in the fifth grade – that there was something fundamentally wrong with him if he didn't have a crush on _someone._ By the time he was twelve, he had enough sense to realize he didn't love her, but it was too ingrained in his routine to just let go – it was a steady point in his life.

This, this was nothing like that.

It wasn't that Stiles wanted Derek to touch him (well, not _just_ that; he _was _a healthy young man). No, he wanted to just sit beside Derek, to hear him, and see him, and live with him. He wanted Derek to be happy, whatever it took. He wanted to hold Derek when nightmares came; he wanted to smile at Derek when it was a good day; he wanted to come home and cook for Derek, read beside Derek, run with Derek. He wanted Derek in his _life_, not just his _bed._ And if that failed, he wanted to live knowing Derek had exactly what he wanted out of life.

Well, shit. He was in love with Derek Hale. When had that happened?

The bruises still hurt. The gashes still throbbed. He was still human, still easy to injure. But if being physically whole every morning – if getting away from the insanity that was the supernaturally-infested Beacon Hills – meant that he'd have to stay away from the Pack, from Derek… He couldn't do it.

So Stiles sat down at his desk again, this time pulling out paper and pencil. He wasn't one to sit around and stew in stuff. So he wrote a new letter, short and to the point, addressed to Derek.

_This morning I almost made the decision to leave Beacon Hills behind, when I woke up – again – with major injuries, and no memory of getting to bed last night. My things were already packed; why not, I thought. I was moving out of Dad's house one way or another, and nothing said I __**had**__ to go to the Pack._

_I spent all day writing out why I __**shouldn't**__ stay. Why I should leave, try to be a normal human. It was a list (not even bulleted, just written out like a letter) seven pages long. Seven, Derek. I'm so far from 'normal' it isn't funny; no one should be able to write __**seven pages**__ full of reasons why their life sucks, man._

_I was ready to leave. To just put all my stuff in the Jeep and drive 'til I ran out of gas._

_And then I thought about all the good stuff._

_What it means to be Pack. How many of the people that I know now I would never have met otherwise, just because they're not human. All the things that keep life from being boring – a curse greater for a sufferer of ADHD than of someone like yourself, as I'm sure you've come to the conclusion, having seen me at my most bored. The chance to protect my father for once, instead of the other way around. The self-confidence, physical skill, social circle, and simple joy I've gained in between supernatural disasters._

_You._

_Yeah, you're a good thing in my life, Sourwolf, believe it or not._

_I almost said goodbye. Just one more morning with injuries from another fight, and I'd have been gone. Even with how much I love the Pack and our life. But… The thought of life without __**you**__ is what really decided me._

_The thought of life without you around. How could I live a life like that?_

_So, just so your Alpha senses don't go crazy, I'll spell it out for you: I'm not leaving. I'm Pack, from here on out, no matter __**what.**_

_I'm glad for this moment of weakness. The hours of thought and typing-sore fingers was worth it. The packed boxes that made for an easy initial decision was worth it. The bruises and cuts that started the thought was worth it. It was all worth it, because I got my head screwed on right._

_Because I __**know**__ I'm Pack – by __**my**__ choice._

_Because I have a life that I love – even with the fights._

_Because __you_

_Because I realized __we might_

_The only thing standing in the way of me leaving was love. For the Pack, and you._

_I love you. I know that now._

_You, Derek Hale, are loved completely and irrevocably by me, Genim "Stiles" Stilinski._

Stiles wrinkled his nose at the worry-crumpled paper. But, over the years, he'd learned blunt was best when dealing with his Alpha.

His Alpha. Huh. He liked that.

He folded the new note up, deleted the list, shoved all his boxes into the Jeep, drove down to the Pack house, shoved the sweaty note into Derek's confused hands, and stood on tip toe to press a quick kiss to his lips before darting inside.

Now he just had to wait and see (but judging by the delighted looks of the rest of the Pack, he'd finally gotten the message). They'd be okay.

(Inspired by _Nothing But Love_ by The Wilkinsons, if it wasn't obvious.)


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N - **Got a couple of people who wanted Derek's reaction to the letter. I felt like writing the wendigo scene. I hope I did both justice.

**It's All Wonderfully Horrible**

When they'd gotten news of a wendigo in the forest, the Pack immediately mobilized; it was their job to protect the naïve humans of their territory from the supernatural. Derek was the only born-wolf in the Pack, as well as being the Alpha, and as a result he could sense the Pack Bonds better than any of the Pack. So he knew before anyone (knew before Lydia, before Allison, before Stiles) and knew better than anyone, that those three were just as much Pack as Scott, Isaac, Erica, Boyd, Jackson, and Danny.

In all the years the humans had been involved in the Pack, Derek had involved them in training just as intense (in comparison) as the training that he had put all the new werewolves after becoming Alpha. They were weaker than the wolves of the Pack, and everyone knew it – so Derek saw it as part of his duty to do what he could to give them advantages.

He _refused_ to watch his Pack die. Not again, and not _this_ Pack… Not the Pack he'd built from the ground-up, himself.

Even just a Pack four-years-old, the back allies and supernatural pockets of the American continent ran with rumors about them. About how they were a Pack risen from the dead to avenge themselves on Hunters; how they stopped each and every threat to their territory, regardless of size; how no supernatural menace was ever seen from again if it teased the Beacon Hills boundary lines. The most mulled over was how they were a Pack who boasted humans of unnatural skill, though: a Hunter who never missed a target, and fought against other Hunters _with_ the Pack; a witch with penchant for flames, and Immunity from all things Change; and a nameless one, a strange one, a full-human who wore a cloak of Red like the Old Tale, and still ran, fought, howled just like Pack.

The first time Stiles had heard the rumor was straight from the stuttering mouth of a horrified lone-Omega, (who didn't realize he'd stumbled onto Hale territory until he noticed the bow-touting, herb-scented, red-jacketed humans that stood with the wolves), as he babbled thoughtlessly for his life, assuming he was about to be gutted. When the nicknames, of himself and the girls, came up, he'd ruined their fearsome reputation by collapsing with undignified laughter in front of that same Omega. Although… even Derek could admit that the simple monikers _were_ amusing: Hunt-Sniper, Boom Witch, and Wolf-Red. After that, it was a unanimous decision to adopt the nicknames, because they'd become just as much a sign of power in the supernatural world as the names Hale and Argent.

A small piece of Derek swelled with pride every time he hear it because, as farfetched as a whole lot (especially the farther-ranged) of the rumors were, the basics were true. His Pack was strong, uncrossed, and a mix of werewolves and capable humans. Where and what his Betas and Omegas fought, his humans did the same.

On that note, that was why when the Pack was alerted to deal with the wendigo, Stiles, Lydia, and Allison came along – armed to their proverbial teeth. The Pack had been doing well – they'd tracked the creature easily, and had it penned in. The trouble came when they found its den.

As their resident research monkey, Stiles was the one who told them to keep an eye out for its den, that there might still be living humans inside. Allison stumbled on the entrance just as the wolves were finally wearing the wendigo down. Since the wendigo's food-of-choice was human flesh, their humans had stayed a little farther back than most battles these days warranted – that was why all three ended up taking point inside the den, maneuvering the living humans out: it was the farthest point from the wendigo that still kept them in easy range of the rest of the Pack.

When it saw strangers that smelled like the wolves attacking him entering its den, the wendigo went _insane._ Like a man gaining unnatural strength and speed from the fear-adrenaline of a disaster, the wendigo leapt clean over the Pack heads' (a feat that, moments ago, it had been too weak to manage) and charged into its den. Before the wolves managed to get into the den, Stiles drew a line of Ash around himself, the girls, and the five still-living victims. He was holding the enraged, human-eating monster off solely with belief.

"Red!" Danny shouted.

Stiles' eyes darted to his Packmate before tracking the wendigo again. Teeth gritted with effort, he gasped, "Grab the others first! I'll hold the line!"

He had a point, and the Pack knew it: for all that the wolves trained, if they wanted to outrun the supernatural creature that had been built to outrun, out-jump, and out-maneuver even the toughest humans that got caught in the woods, out of this tiny space, they could only carry one victim at a time. Allison levered one of the victims to her feet, and hailed Isaac – as the werewolf darted as close to the Mountain Ash line as he could, she shoved the half-conscious woman at him.

She and Lydia did the same with the other four victims, passing them off to random wolves as quick as they could, while the others menaced the wendigo, drawing its attention and keeping it from reaching the exit and reclaiming the humans. Allison launched herself at Boyd, the closest at the time, and he pulled her away without a hitch. But when Lydia jumped out at Erica, the wendigo slipped past Derek, its freakish fingers snatching at her blouse. Danny and Jackson both roared, and it didn't lay a finger on her, but as Erica drew her away, her heel broke the Ash line.

The desperate wendigo made a lunge for the body closest, and ended up with Stiles. It grabbed his left wrist too tight, hauling it above their heads, and sunk it's teeth into the meat of his right shoulder. It might have been stripped of most of the intelligence that it had once possessed as a human, but it apparently knew enough to hold a hostage. Stiles' abortive scream wrenched the Pack's hearts. Derek snarled furiously, eyes bright red, and black fur rippling over his body as he dropped into the Alpha form – a black, red-eyed wolf as large as a bear.

Already, the anesthetic in its saliva was taking effect, as Stiles' head lolled loosely on his neck. He moaned faintly, eyes fluttering shut. The Pack shifted on uneasy feet, chests' rumbling with growls, stuck in a stalemate.

A hum of pent up energy surged through the Pack as a whole when Boyd's voice whispered in warning, "Sniper's up." Danny and Erica shifted to shield her from its line of sight, without impeding her own, or giving away their intentions by looking back.

In the small space, the _twang_ of the bow reached their ears only after the wendigo sprouted an arrow in its forehead. Derek took advantage of the surprise, and rushed it with a howl. He rammed into it while its grip was still slack on Stiles, sending it and himself crashing into a tangle on one side of the den, and accidently tossing Stiles into the ground in the process. It was a temporary tussle, filled much more with the wendigo's noises of discontent than Derek's grunts of effort. As he freed himself, Isaac and Danny – the quickest in the Pack – braced it on either side, setting it in Lydia's sights.

The impact with the ground had roused Stiles somewhat, so Derek gripped his waist and hauled him up, hoping the other male could walk. Caught up in the sight of Stiles' scraped up arm and face, Derek missed the moment when the wendigo broke free. With a yelp, he tightened his grip, in order to swing the other onto his shoulders fireman-style, and flee the advances of their enemy. Lydia couldn't have picked a better time to launch one of her signature Molotov cocktails.

As it and its den burned, the Pack settled back and attended to the wounded, keeping an eye on the blaze and the forest around it. When Allison was sure the beast was done, Lydia began to direct the others to put out the fire, while Isaac made sure none of the victims were badly enough off to not survive a trip as-is to the hospital. When the fire was gone, Derek sent the Pack on their way to deal with the victims as needed, and he scooped Stiles' once-again unconscious body up.

It was… uncomfortably familiar to deal with Stiles' injuries and then tuck him into bed. Derek hated that he got hurt so often; Stiles would hate _Derek,_ however, if Derek tried to prevent him from fighting alongside the Pack. Derek made sure everything was as in-order as it could be, dropped by John's room to inform the Sheriff that his son was home and safe, and left.

**-IAWH-**

Derek had expected Stiles to come by with his things any day now, since the house was finished and the majority of the Pack was settled in, and wasn't surprised when he showed up late the next afternoon, personal affects in tow. He hadn't expected Stiles to press a folded letter into his hands before marching upstairs to put up the first of his things.

He glanced up at Stiles' retreating back, brow furrowed a bit more than usual, and then sat down to open the unsealed, reminiscence of school yard note-passing. Over the course of the five minutes it took to read Stiles messy scrawl, Derek's emotions rocketed all over the place.

_… I almost made the decision to leave Beacon Hills behind… nothing said I **had** to go to the Pack…_

Derek's heart stuttered, and his hands – suddenly claws – bore tiny holes in the paper. It was only the fact that, as it stood, he could literally _hear_ and _smell_ Stiles' current presence in the house that kept him from leaping up and panicking. His instincts still demanded he race up to Stiles and hide him away, safe and sound and right where Derek would know he was. Only the rest of the letter kept him sitting (and the knowledge of what an ornery Stiles was capable of).

_… not even bulleted… **seven pages** full of reasons why… ready to leave… drive 'til I ran out of gas…_

His teeth were quietly, painfully grinding in his mouth. All he could think of was how he was the _Alpha_ – it was his _job_ to notice problems in his Pack, and then fix them! Why the _hell_ had he not noticed this in Stiles?!

_… And then I thought about all the good stuff…_

A small knot in his chest decided it was time to loosen. It was only one of many, and it could re-clench at any time, but at last it seemed like he had reached the positive portion of this letter. As long as he breathed, kept a cool head, and read this, eventually he would get to the core of _whatever_ the hell Stiles was trying to say.

_… you're a good thing in my life, Sourwolf…_

That… had been unexpected (well, that stupid nickname, not so much, but still).

_… Just one more… I'd have been gone…_

His wolf whined pitifully, and his heart clenched again. And then he read the next line and… kept reading, for lack of anything else to do, shocked. The wildly shifting emotions kept him unbalanced, and as the news grew… positive… he was torn between elation and despair.

_… But… The thought of life without **you** is what really decided me…_

Just—What the hell, Stiles…?!

_… I'll spell it out… I'm Pack, from here on out, no matter **what...**_

As much as he hated the patronizing tone – audible even through the ink, just because he could almost hear Stiles reading it out loud as Derek's eyes followed the lines – he _was_ grateful for the reiteration. It made the tension bleed out of his body. No matter what else he read in this – what, confession? diary entry? prank? – Derek could relax, because obviously it ended well.

_… Because I **know** I'm Pack…_

That declaration still made Derek warm inside. For all that Stiles had known about werewolves since he was sixteen, it had taken until he was almost twenty to admit what everyone else knew: that he was a useful, valued, and trusted member of the Pack. And not just the token best friend of one of the Pack members of a tolerant Pack who indulged in human-werewolf co-mingling.

_… Because you… Because I realized we might_

Seeing Stiles struggling to speak – even if it was just on paper – got Derek's attention, and his focus sharpened. It was getting down to the nitty-gritty, then – the reason for this letter, the point that the ever-vocal Stiles couldn't bring himself to mutter.

_The only thing standing in the way of me leaving was love… I love you… loved completely and irrevocably…_

Wait.

What?

Derek blinked, and re-read those last lines.

The rapid beating of a nervous heart in front of him finally registered – along with the calm scent of satisfaction, and a small tang of triumph, from the familiar collection of scents that meant 'Pack', just in the next room. Slowly, Derek put down the letter, smoothing the crinkled edges, and then stood. Stiles swallowed nervously, and stumbled, "So – ah. Yeah. That's—that's it, then. Are you—I mean, is this… okay?"

Derek looked Stiles in his nervous honey eyes, drawing the moment out until sweat popped out on Stiles' forehead, until his pounding heart had begun to run double-time, until a nervous chuckle wormed its way passed his lips. Then he quirked the corner of his mouth in something that – in another life – might have been a smile.

He grasped Stiles' shirt-front and thrust him against the wall (gentle, easy, always careful – the old-blood scent of bruising, and new-blood scent of the scabs of a deep wound were still too fresh), bringing their faces nose-to-nose. Distantly, he could hear his Pack tittering, laughing, and groaning in long-awaited relief. What, had they _all_ seen this coming, except Stiles and himself?

"You're an idiot."

Then he leaned forward and pressed a closed-mouth kiss to the right corner of Stiles' mouth, avoiding the still-tender skin on his left cheek. It was a fleeting touch, barely a brush, but it was enough to blow Stiles' pupils wide, bring a flush to his face, and make him breathless. So he didn't lunge after Derek as soon as the older man pulled away; Derek could deal. Especially when, as he leaned forward again, Stiles shifted just enough that it was an honest meeting of lips.

Where they would go from here, Derek didn't know. His own history of dating consisted solely of Kate, and so he knew he was probably more than a little messed up, relationship-wise. And Stiles, for all his bravado on normal days, was still new to all of this – had never had a second date in the history of the Pack. They were either going to be horrible for one another… or absolutely wonderful.

But they would make it. They were Pack. He was the Alpha wolf. And Stiles was the Red that drew the wolf. They would make it (even if Lydia, Isaac, and Erica, tired of the UST in the Pack, had to shove the two of them in a locked closet for their first fight, until they made up).

It was going to be wonderfully horrible, and Derek was never going to let it go. Ever.


End file.
